


The Beauty of the Rain

by oxymoronassoc



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 13:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11232162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronassoc/pseuds/oxymoronassoc
Summary: Set post Deathly Hollows. George reflects on his loss. (I apparently also used to not write summaries.)Originally written 9.2.07





	The Beauty of the Rain

He awoke the week to the day after the funeral and, for the first time since it'd happened, felt like getting out of bed. There was no slow staggering of reluctant limbs, no stumbling over objects long since picked up and thrown away by his mother. The fog that had swept into his mind and paralyzed him seemed to be clearing, and he almost attempted a smile in the spotted glass of the bathroom mirror as he scraped the razor over his cheeks and scrubbed vigorously at his teeth. 

The kitchen was empty as he padded downstairs, but the scent of bacon still lingered in the air. A plate sat at the freshly scrubbed table, along with a note from his mother telling him she'd gone to the village and not to worry. He frowned at the note, crumpling it in a strong fist, feeling guilty for making his mother worry about him so. He felt he should be returning home, but his brain shied away from the idea of rattling lonely and silent around the tiny flat above the shop. He bolted down the bacon and left the congealed egg before leaving a note of his own sellotaped to one of the glass panes in the kitchen door. 

For once it wasn't raining and he shuffled down the back steps, squinting up at the sun and the fluffy white clouds in a cerulean sky. He'd meant to only wander down to the back garden and maybe kick a few gnomes for old times' sake, but he found his feet moving him out the garden gate and rambling through the damp grass towards the river and Stoatshead Hill. 

He'd been walking for what seemed quite some time when he suddenly noticed something, or rather someone, bobbing about in the grass down near the riverbank. He frowned, not really wanting to chat with some Muggle, and quickly changed direction. His trainers, their soles worn flat, slipped on the damp grass at the sudden movement and the next thing he knew, he was sliding down the grassy incline, clawing frantically at the muddy grass. 

He came to a halt a few feet from the riverbank. Closing his eyes, he exhaled deeply, feeling the wet mud soak into the back of his hooded sweatshirt and jeans. 

"Are you looking for the snorkblats too?" a vague voice asked from above him.

He opened his eyes, squinting up at the figure above him. "My eyes were closed," he said slowly, pushing himself up on one arm. His hand sank into the mud and he grimaced.

"Of course they were," said the figure with a soft sigh. "How else would you see them?" She said this as if it were an obvious statement of fact, not in an unkind way, but in a very firm, confident way.

"You can't—" he started before stopping himself as he realized who the speaker was. "How are you, Luna?" he murmured, staring down at his mud-flecked hand.

"Quite well, thank you." She looked down at him for the first time. "Is that not quite slimy?" she asked. 

"Very," he agreed, pushing himself up and trying to wipe the mud off his hands. His efforts were in vain as he merely smear the mud on his jeans more.

Luna shielded her eyes against the sun and stared at the horizon for a long time. He gave up on wiping his hands off and followed her eyes wondered what she saw.

"Perhaps not today," she said in that wispy voice of hers. Protuberant grey eyes turned to meet his. "Would you like to come to tea?" 

He looked down at himself, at the mud spattering his clothes, which were old and poorly fitting; his jeans sagged off his hips, dragged down further by the damp and the mud and he was beginning to suspect the hoodie was actually his sister’s. "I..." he began but something on her open and trusting face made him pause. "Yeah, all right. I'd like that. Cheers."

She smiled at him then. "Oh, lovely!" She took his hand then, her small fingers engulfed in his large palm. "I made some delightful biscuits this morning," she informed him, tucking a strand of her long, wild hair behind one ear and exposing an earring made of some fishing twine and three Muggle bottle caps that clinked against each other as they walked. "Anise and cherry bark." 

He tried not to grimace and gave her the ghost of a smile. "That sounds...interesting. Thank you."

She nodded her head in acknowledgement as she led him towards the dark tower on the hill.

\----

She invited him to sit in the kitchen, explaining that the sitting room was still in shambles. "Harry did it," she told him matter-of-factly as she set to making tea by hand. He watched her as she moved about the room in a sort of choreographed dance. "Papa is still in the process of tidying" she continued, "but he's so terribly busy with the Quibbler these days." 

He didn't know what to say so he made what he thought were appropriate noises. The conversation segued onto a monologue about the solitary habits of the Common Snorkblat but petered off into an awkward silence as she sat down across from him at the wobbly, cultured kitchen table. He wrapped his hands around the mug and stared down into the murky depths of his tea to avoid staring unnecessarily at her. The sip he took from the mug was merely out of politeness and, when the taste splashed onto his tongue, he was glad it’d been a small sip.

"What sort of tea did you say this was?" he choked out.

"Thyme and horehound," Luna murmured, taking a healthy swallow and appearing to enjoy the bilious flavour.

"Interesting," he croaked. 

The conversation died again and for a long time he merely studied the woodgrain of the table while the girl across from him hummed a tuneless tune. 

"I'm sorry about your brother," she said finally. "I liked him. He was nice to me." She said that in a tone that implied most people weren't.

He didn't know what to say in return, swallowing hard over the lump that had formed in his throat. 

"I went to the funeral," she continued, as if not expecting a reply. "I brought some thistle and gorse and wild roses. They're his good luck flowers." 

He rubbed his face with one hand and her fingers twitched as if she wanted to reach out to him. "Would you like some more tea?" she said instead. 

He shook his head, staring at his hand as it trembled slightly. "I should go," he said, raising bright brown eyes to meet her wide grey. 

"Please, won’t you stay?" she said, rising slightly from her chair. "You looked—-you look so sad. I never thought you could look sad."

"Life isn't all fun and games," he told her, voice holding a bitter edge. 

"I know that," she said quietly, her wide gaze holding his, for once their dreamy edge nowhere to be seen. 

He looked away first and took another sip of the tea. It reminded him of the cough syrup his mother gave him and Fred when they were younger. His hand tightened around the mug. Soft fingers touched the back of his hand hesitantly. 

"We've all been through so much," she murmured. "And we stood apart so we feel alone, but we will always have each other. Just because the war is over doesn't mean the bonds of friendship are too." 

"You're a good person, Luna." It sounded stupid and simple as he said it, but he meant it.

She smiled softly and shrugged before taking another sip of tea. "I'm just a person." 

He shook his head. 

"I don't think there are just good people and bad people," she told him.

The mug rattled in his hand as he stared at her, brows coming together. "How can you say that? After everything, how can you believe that?"

"How can you not?" Her expression remained open and calm and he had the sudden urge to shake her, to see if she could express some other emotion than her air of vacancy. 

He swallowed the bile rising in his throat or maybe it was the tea. "I have to go," he said again, rising abruptly and spilling the tea across the table. She stared at it in dismay before turning the look onto him. He could’ve cleaned it up with a wave of his wand, but he didn't. "I was wrong about you," he continued, the hateful words spilling from his mouth. 

"I'm sorry," she said simply, but he could tell his words stung.

He nodded curtly and made his way to the door. The rain had begun again and he stared at the drizzle in dismay. He was too agitated to Apparate. He didn't care if he got splinched, but he couldn't do that to his mother in her back garden.

"Here," her hazy voice said and an umbrella printed with hot pink cats was gently pushed into his hand. "You can go now, if that's what you want to do." 

He took the umbrella without a word and began his walk home, thoughts heavy. 

\---

He dreamed of the battle again that night. It was the same nightmare that plagued him every time he closed his eyes: his twin two steps in front of him. It should've been me, he thought for the umpteenth time, but he'd stumbled as they'd run hell for leather down the corridor. Fred had taken two steps ahead. Those fatal two steps. There'd been a great crack and the stone, oh god, the stone had begun to tumble. Mirrored eyes had met in a shared moment of horror and then nothing. He'd used strong arms and strong magic, but in his heart he knew it was useless to try and move the wall. Fred was gone. This was it; this was the end.

Only this time the dream shifted and he was somewhere else, stumbling brokenly through the corridors, wand slashing at anyone and anything in his path. He saw her then, arm poised like a dancer, radish earrings bobbing violently as she shouted a spell and darted to avoid the returning volley. Their eyes had met for a moment before she rushed forward. There'd been no fear upon her face, just calm acceptance that maybe she might die and maybe she might live but no matter the path she would see this through. At the time he hadn’t been struck by her fierce loyalty, but in his sleeping mind the moment stretched out between them like eternity.

He woke up in a cold sweat, rain pounding against the window. His eyes drifted to the empty bed across the room, covered in its well-worn, patched spread. Tears pricked his eyes and he buried his face in the pillow. 

He didn't get up the next day and his mother had fussed and cajoled him. The sadness and worry around her eyes made him feel guilty, but he couldn't force his body to rise. The Burrow seemed to sag around the family, as if it too mourned a dead son and brother.

\---

He was lying in bed staring blindly at the wall when he noticed the fallen photograph. He pulled it gently out from the crack between the bed and the wall and it took his eyes a minute to focus on the figures within. He recognized the old stone walls of Hogwarts and the smiling figures in the photo. We were so young, he thought, flipping the paper over to see the date scrawled upon the back. How could it have only been two years ago? He turned back to the figures, studying them quietly. He knew who had taken the photo; Colin Creevy, now as dead as his brother. What a waste. Brown eyes slid across the assembled and he stared at his own grinning face, at that of his twin's. He stared at Harry Potter, who stood awkwardly next to his brother Ron, his grin a bit sheepish, as if he were both proud and embarrassed to be the leader of the little group. Hermione smiled with no teeth, almost a smirk, as if she found something amusing about the whole endeavor. His sister's grin was lazy. And Luna...Luna's smile was dreamy and blissful, as if this were the best place and the best people in all the world. 

He tacked the photo gently back onto the wall and got out of bed, pulling on the first clothes at hand. With one last glance at Fred's bed, he picked up the umbrella by the door and went downstairs. He kissed his mother gently on the cheek without a word and went down the stairs and out of the garden. 

\---

It took two minutes of knocking for her to answer the door. Her hair was mussed and floated about her head like a sort of halo. Paint was smudged across her cheekbone; a vermillion slash on ivory.

"Hello," she said, her glaze level.

"I, uhm, I came to return your umbrella," he said, holding it out.

"Thank you," she replied, taking it.

He continued to stand there, swallowing convulsively and pressing his lips together, unsure of what to say.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out as she said, "Would you like to come in?"

"You don't have to be sorry," she told him as she pulled the heavy door open wider. 

He stepped forward into the small hall. "I abused our friendship," he said. "I was rude."

"You were upset. It's all right, really. We must forgive, but not forget. Like the fulffleduff, which remembers its entire life from birth to death." She frowned then. "They only live for three hours." 

He smiled slightly. "You amaze me."

"Thank you," she said. "Would you like to see my painting?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

She smiled and he followed her upstairs.


End file.
